The Lovegood Ritual
by smarties2
Summary: Harry finds himself caught in a trap laid out by Voldemort’s last horcrux, and what should have brought him back in time does nothing more than rip his soul apart as he is thrust into a future of anarchy and violence where Voldemort has won the war.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Hello Everybody. I wrote this story as a sort of hobby to help me relax after a hard day's work of studying sciences, in particular chemistry, and so it is not a serious project as such, but rather a project that parallels the playfulness of a child building sand castles on the seashore, knowing that ultimately it will prove of little effect as the sea razes the structure. In the same way, the sea will drown my story into obscurity, so my main motivation for writing this story is the same motivation of the child building a sandcastle. It is a mixture of playfulness, of idleness, of wonderment at one's own ability to do something, even if that something is of minuscule importance. But much to my annoyance, I am not a child anymore, and I have one more motivation that I should describe, which is avoiding my studies. Yes, I am procrastination itself, and embody the term like a garment worn to tatters.

Anyways enjoy the first chapter and tell me your thoughts with no inhibitions, for I have a thick skin and if you like it, do feel free to encourage, for sandcastles, though they will sooner or later be washed away by the waves of the sea, are for the most part fun to build.

The Lovegood Ritual

Summary: Harry finds himself caught in a trap laid out by Voldemort's last horcrux, and what should have brought him back in time does nothing more than rip his soul apart as he is thrust into a future of anarchy and violence befitting a scene where Voldemort's victory is supreme and sublime.

Chapter One: Where Harry Converses with a Snake

The day was quite warm, and sweat tingled on Harry's brow as he dug the grave for his mentor, Albus Dumbledore. In his waistband he had his holly and pheonix wand safely tucked, and in his pocket he felt the weight of a few galleons and sickles, the last of the Potter fortune.

In his hands he held a shovel he had conjured, and he dug like a muggle, in the courtyard where Hogwarts used to stand tall and proud not ten miles behind him. But that was a long time ago, a time when the Forbidden Forest hadn't been razed to the ground, when explosives tagged on the walls and portraits of Hogwarts hadn't destroyed the ancient school of magic.

The war with Lord Voldemort had cost Harry quite a lot, but in the end, he had triumphed.

Voldemort was dead.

Harry sighed and stopped digging, he was panting hard, and sweat ran down his face like a river. He stood up, deep in the bowel of the grave he was digging, and looked at the clear sky as he recalled the war, every bit and piece of it. He remembered the bloodshed, the pain, the tears of mourning for the deaths of his closest friends, of allies he had never met who died fighting death eaters, going out in a storm of bravery, of thousands of wizards and witches following his banner, his war cry. Resistance!

They marched under his name. They marched under his insignia, the lightning bolt, and when they saw the blue spark light up the darkness over a mansion that belonged to a blood purist, they rejoiced. When they saw a blue thunderbolt next to the dark mark hovering in the sky, they knew a battle was on.

When people saw him, they bowed.

When Harry looked in the mirror, at his scar torn face, at his hard emerald green eyes, he wished he could just go back and do it all over again, live normally, live like an ordinary man.

He never wanted the burden, never wanted the mantle of the Chosen One, but he wore it like a second skin. He wore it proudly, he wore it with determination and he wore it to please the expectations of the world around him.

He descended in the dark arts, and nobody blamed him.

He used the killing curse almost flippantly, and the Ministry awarded him the Order of Merlin.

He tried to make a horcrux, failed, and Albus Dumbledore comforted him.

In the end, it was really himself that he despised, not Voldemort.

Yes, he wished he could just go back, go back to perhaps his fourth year, when it all began with Voldemort's rebirth. Perhaps go back and play in the tournament again, match wits with death eaters in a time of almost purity, a time of almost innocence.  
In the end, it was really himself he hated. Not Voldemort, not death eaters. For his failures, his mistakes. He couldn't save Hermione, or Fleur, or Ron, or Arthur.

He couldn't save the only place that felt like home to him, Hogwarts.

All he seemed to do was murder.

-----

He drank a glass of scotch and watched the rain pour on the grey streets of Paris from a window in his bachelor's apartment. He had very little money, having spent his vast family fortune funding the war effort, but with a little persuasion, he got himself a small ministry stipend for services rendered.

Fudge loved to be in his good books, considering Harry had a lot of political clout. But Harry hated politics, hated to war with words, to be sly like a snake with his tongue and say something yet do the opposite. He hated hypocrisy. Voldemort was the same.

Voldemort chose to become lord and master over all the domain, and never had to bend and bow to those who did not deserve respect. He relied on his own strength. He relied on the darkness.

Harry thought it was like sinking into a warm bath, comfortable, using the dark arts. He got addicted to them, got hooked on the rush of casting a well put "CRUCIO", of casting a blood boiler on some idiot death eater.

Now he dealt with withdrawal symptoms. The war was over, and all that was left to do was wait, wait for death to come and take him into her arms.

Patience, a cloak he wore as well as his family heirloom.

He had learnt it through his mistakes in the war. He made good use of it.

Patience was a boat that would carry him over the lake of misfortune, a famous Persian poet had once said.

Harry wondered why he did this to himself, why he wasted away, watching the rain when he could be out changing the world for the better.

The answer came to him like an epiphany: he didn't care about the world. He only cared about himself.

And Harry was fine with that, Harry was okay with his selfishness. It had saved his hide thousands of times in the war.

He just wished his friends were still alive, that's all.

Harry drank himself to oblivion and woke up with a headache that rivalled the very best of  
Goyle's bone breakers.

He looked up at the downcast sky, and tried to go back to bed, the Ron's face kept swarming in his eyes. Young, innocent. Harry had sacrificed Ron, his best friend, to save himself.

He had to, he was the Chosen One, and he couldn't allow himself to be captured by Voldemort. Ron willingly took the pain, and it lasted forever. Harry couldn't allow his heart to melt like water, instead he held it like iron in fists of tightly held strings, manipulating his friends and loved ones like puppets, like soldiers.

Sometimes he heard their voices in his dreams.

But today he felt refreshed, as if everything that happened was a mark on a parchment, that was soon, slowly but surely, being erased.

He decided to visit a place that had been recently opened, and as such acquired a portkey for himself under the alias, Evans Harrison from the French Ministry. After a nausiating trip through the vortex and subdimensions of portkey magic that defied understanding to the average ordinary wizard, Harry landed on a tropical island hidden in the Pacific ocean. He got up to his feet, and gaped at the sight that was almost as inspiring as Hogwarts.

It was a library.

He entered the library of Alzan with a sigh, wondering what he was looking for here in the first ever magical library open to the public. Most of the books had come from Hogwarts, and some of them had been pillaged from mansions of blood purists and death eaters. Rows of shelves stacked the room, and books aged and half burnt littered the shelves in a disorganized fashion. The library was empty, but there was a table, whereupon seated on it there was a snake, a hissing snake with emerald scales that matched the colour of Harry's eyes.

Harry strode toward it fearlessly, and looked deeply into the serpent's gaze, and said, "What is your name, little one?"

"They call me Alzan, and I am the keeper of the library," the snake said, "The wizard who summoned me intends to gift me toward a great wizard by the name of Harry Potter."

"Who was it that summoned you?" asked Harry, curious. "Was it the founder of this library, Zabini? Or was it one of the death eater scum that escaped the law?"

"The latter I think. He goes by Malfoy."

"Ah Draco," said Harry, "It is a good present, I shall tell him so when I meet him."

"He does not like you very much, yet he puts on airs as if he does. His behavior marks me as strange," said the serpent, "I do not like him. He smells of weakness, of scavengery, like a jackal. But you, I like you, you smell like me. Indeed you speak my tongue, so you must be like me. Do you have serpent's blood in your genesis?"

"No, this magical trait I stole from a wizard, a great wizard, who did terrible things," Harry said. "Well not stole exactly, but I certainly didn't receive it from him by his will."

"How cunning of you, to acquire powers as such," Azlan said, "Take me with you, let me be your servent."  
"I thought you wanted to be with Harry Potter?" Harry said, "Why choose me?"

"Draco wants me to be with Harry, but I make my own descisions. I choose you, wizard. Accept me into your fold and I shall show you great books, because I have known them all. I am a keeper of books, I am Azlan the librarian of the library Azlan. I know these books, I can help you!"

The snake had turned furious by the last sentence and Harry knew if he declined the snake's offer, the snake would bite him in hurt pride. But Harry wouldn't decline. Harry liked the snake. "Very well, I shall keep you. Just so you know, my name is Harry Potter and I am the wizard you have been gifted to."

The snake bowed its head. "Indeed you are a great one then, perhaps as great as my previous master, Lord Voldemort."

Harry's neck turned sharply, from perusing the books on the rundown looking bookshelves to regard the thin, weak looking snake with his fullest intensity. "You have met Lord Voldemort?"

"Yes, I have," the snake said, rearing his head proudly upward to meet Harry's gaze. "He was a great wizard, and his smell... it is like your smell. But he is dead now. I can feel it in my scales, his death was an explosive event for serpents all over the world."

"How so? He has a bond with snakes, yes, but how could you feel his death?"

"Because I am his last horcrux," the snake said, and a red pinprick of light entered the snake's eyes. "I am the last, I am Tom Riddle, and I am Lord Voldemort, and I have sought you out, Harry."

Harry took a deep breath, and grabbed his wand. The snake regarded it with caution. "What are you going to do, Harry, kill me all over again? In truth I am already dead, I am just a small spark of what was once a blazing fire. Do not kill me, but let me aid you throughout your life."

"Aid me? You mean to use me to gain human form do you not?" Harry asked lightly, but he let his mind's senses extend over the serpent and used legilimency to try to detect lies from the weak looking horcrux.

"I am an ambitious serpent," Azlan said, looking amused, "And although I hold the soul of Tom Riddle within me, I am still myself, I have not succumbed to his persuasion, to his possession. We co-exist in harmony, and as such you cannot regard me as your enemy. Why don't you let me be your friend instead?"

"And how can you aid me exactly?" asked Harry, "You are the string that binds my enemy to this mortal plane. You cannot aid me in defeating him, because your existence itself defies my goal to defeat Voldemort once and for all."

"Are you without friends Harry, that you have so fully focused yourself on eradicating the presence of a mere man? A mere mortal who could not stand up to your magical prowess, your strength?" Azlan said, and slithered toward Harry's arm. Harry let it slither up his arm, and around his neck without moving, and let the snake hiss its words in his ears, because it had captivated Harry like nothing else could.

"My friends are dead. You killed them. Do you feel any regret, in taking their lives?" Harry asked, "When were you made? I figure recently, because you have a way with words that lets wisdom shine through it, a certain air of manipulation and confidence acquired only through experience."

"Yes, very recently, I was made - or rather, the soul infested me like a worm the day before Voldemort's death," Azlan said, "Your enemy is my enemy. I hold him at bay from my mind, yet he seeps through anyway like poison, and infects me with his powers."

"You don't fight him," Harry said, "You let him infect you because you want power. You cannot stand to remain Azlan, a mere snake with a love of books, and this partnership you have with Voldemort makes you not my friend, but my enemy."

"I can offer you aid-"

"Can you bring my friends back to life?" Harry asked, "Can you remove the effects of your actions? No you cannot and therefore you are no use to me. I will kill you." Harry raised his wand to strike but he paused when the snake said in a sibilant yet utterly certain hiss.

"Yes, I can!"

It was no lie. The snake had said it with such certainty, Harry had no choice but to believe. Yet he still had doubts. "How? Explain yourself, you vile beast."

"There are rituals and there are spells, there are potions and there are lullabies and songs, and all these things are mere expressions of something that cannot be defined yet exists without limit."

"You say famous words," Harry said, "Yes I have read the classics on the theory of magic, yet you do not convince me. Instead you strike me as an annoying weakling, who is hanging on his last thread to survive, instead of thrive like a great one."

The snake swore angrily, and tightened its grip on Harry's neck. Harry smirked. "You think you can kill me? Your poison, if you have any, will not harm me in the slightest. Your muscular tonature of the serpent body you inhabit will not make me pause in my mission."

"You are right," Azlan said, "Against you words are my only weapon, and knowledge, of which I have a lot of, something that might interest you."

"Then speak, quickly and consicely, lest I lose my patience," Harry said. "State your case, and I shall judge what worth your life is to me."

"Then listen with open ears, my friend," Azlan said, "For if we do this we shall become allies, and brothers, indeed we shall become like one. I speak of a ritual so dark, so vastly obscure, that it has been submerged in the vortex of shadows."  
"Your riddles won't save you, Tom Riddle," Harry smirked at the small pun he made, "Tell me what you can offer me, now."

"I can take you back in time," the serpent said, "Imagine a world ripe for the plucking, imagine a world where you have foreknowledge, where you know the future, where you have power beyond their dreams. Imagine a world set in the past, where what has occured has not yet occured. You will have power to shape your world the way you wish it."

"I have read of similar rituals," Harry said, laughing, "In stories and novels. Rituals where loved ones throw themselves in the past to prevent the deaths of their lovers. I think Luna Lovegood has quite the imagination, and I wonder if you have read her books for you to be spouting such bullshit."

"It is not lies!" Protested the serpent, "This ritual I do have knowledge of and it is not a fake, it is the real deal. Let me pull you out of your misery, out of your hollow victory. Give me your hands in friendship, give me your soul in affection, and I can make your dreams come true."

Harry pried the serpent off his neck and threw it to the floor. "You vile beast indeed, it is so pathetic to see how low Tom Riddle has fallen. You should not have revealed your true nature to me."

"It wouldn't have mattered. You can sense me through the scar can you not?" Azlan said, "That is what tells in memories of Lord Voldemort, that you can sense his presence and that of his horcruxes when in close proximity."

Harry frowned, "No I couldn't sense Voldemort's presence." He sighed, "I suppose there is some truth in your words then, you are Azlan and you are indeed keeping Tom at bay, yet you are far from trustworthy."

"I will show you, I will take you to the book, to the ancient scroll that describes this ritual," the snake said, "It is here in this very library. Previously it was located in the restricted section of the restricted section in Hogwarts, and before that it was -"

"Wait, the restricted section of the restricted section?" Harry said, eyes widening. "I have never heard of such a thing, and I know Hogwarts like the back of my hand."

"Nobody knows the secrets of Hogwarts in totallity, Harry," Azlan said, "Except for me. I know all. I am Azlan, and I am a powerful serpent, a serpent with immense dexterity in the arts of magic, in all arts. I can help you, train you to be the greatest wizard of all time. Indeed I helped Merlin-"

"I can tell you are lying," Harry said, sneering at the snake. "Your boasts make me feel little confidence in your words. But show me the scroll, and if you cannot, then I will kill you right away. Show me this ancient text that describes the ritual you have been so amandantly trying to convince me of, and I will consider your fate in a kind light if you have been speaking truth."

The snake nodded its head solemnly and led Harry past a maze of shelves deep into the back room of the Azlan Library, which had once been a castle. Harry paused when the snake paused in front of a rock wall, and there was a window where Harry glanced out of. He could see vast stretches of forests, and the wavy sea that surrounded the island Azlan was built on. He could feel the heat of the sun on his neck where the light shined. He wondered why he had decided to visit the library instead of lounging about the streets of Paris like a vagabound and the answer was simple. He wanted to do something to remind himself of Hermione. He wanted to remember her, because he missed her, like he missed Ron. It was a hole in his heart that would never go away.

That's why he let the snake live, where he should have simply struck it down. He had a faint hope that perhaps there was such a ritual as described in Luna's books. True, he had read them all, at least two or three times, it was such a popular series.

But to Harry, it was his ultimate fantasy, his dream. It brought a thrill in his heart when he thought about Luna's stories, and he had oft wished the stories were based on some semblence of reality, for he would make deals with devils and demons to go back in time and save his friends in an instant, without consideration of his own wellfare.

Azlan looked up toward Harry, and then said, "Your wand, my lord, my master, use your wand to blast this barrier, for it is a seal that hides the darkest of scrolls within its walls."

Harry did so, using a simple reducto. But the red light got absorbed into the grey rock and Harry was forced to use a much more powerful, darker explosive hex. He cast a thin shield to save himself from shrapnel and grinned when the snake cried in pain as small shards pierced its body.

The snake hissed angrily in words Harry did not understand, but beckoned Harry to follow him down a set of stair cases that was situated behind the wall Harry had blown apart. Harry did so warily, watching for any signs of traps. He was playing with fire, and a horcrux was quite cunning, especially when it was one made by the fiercest of dark lords.

"Tell me, Azlan, what do you gain from this," Harry asked as they descended the steps. "You send me back in time, but what then?"

"Not send you, but come with you," corrected Azlan, "We shall go together, master and servent, and change the world to your liking. As for what I gain, why serving you is all I want, all I seek, all I need."

"You terrible liar," Harry said, "Voldemort does not serve. The truth, little serpent, or your life, right here and now."

The snake stopped, and in the pale light of Harry's wand it seemed to consider his words carefully. "If the ritual works, my soul will not have been destroyed. I will have a chance to save my other brothers in need from your cruelty."

"I see," Harry said, "As expected really, you go back in time, using me as a sacrifice, and take over the world."  
"You, a sacrifice? Never!" Azlan said, but Harry could tell the serpent was lying. However he was curious, and he let himself follow the untrustworthy beast into the dungeons of Azlan library, wondering, with his heart hammering in his chest, whether a ritual of such type truly existed, or whether this was a cunning trap laid out by the last of Voldemort's horcruxes.

It explained the occasional twinges in his scar, Harry thought, it explained how Harry always had thhe feeling that Voldemort had slipped his grasp somehow.

Azlan's existence explained everything, and Harry determined to himself that before the day was through, that existence would be extinguished, that spark would burn out, and what was once a blaze that defined the greatness of Voldemort's wizardry would be nothing more than ruins and a burnt body of a lying serpent .


	2. Chapter 2

The Lovegood Ritual

Chapter Two: In Which Harry Finds the Scroll

(part 1/5)

Harry descended down the staircase, which changed in many directions at harsh angles such that Harry had to squint harshly under the pale light of the wand to make sure he wasn't running into walls. Azlan wouldn't stop hissing to him as Harry carried the snake on his arm, assuring Harry that he was the snake's master to the fullest and that Tom Riddle had changed, and wanted to be a "Good guy" and he wouldn't even dare to touch Harry's friends because Harry was such a powerful and great wizard. Harry quickly grew annoyed by the serpent's endless lies, and silenced him with his wand.

Soon, the descending stairwell ended to reveal a vast platform that reminded Harry of the chamber of secrets. Harry took in a deep breath of the stale air that permeated in this chamber, and unsilenced the snake. "My master, why do you treat me so roughly, so cruelly? Do I not serve you well? Haven't I brought you into the most secret of caverns with the opportunity for you to fulfill your greatest desire?"

"Where is the scroll?" asked Harry, "You are a serpent who will lie and say anything to save your pathetic skin, but from you right now I require truth. If you lie to me, I will know and nothing will save you."

"Very well," Azlan's whole demeanor changed, as if he became more sober, more heavily burdened with a great secret. "If you will give me an oath that you will not kill me after I show you the scroll."

Harry sneered. "You dare to bind me with an oath? Let me tell you something interesting, Tom Riddle, something that might interest you very much. It consists of your favorite little death eater, one Evan Rosier. I found him and captured him, and tortured him for information. Do you want to hear of how I tortured your pet, your death eater, your snake?"

Azlan backed away, slithering as far away from Harry as he could but Harry waved his wand and the snake froze in his movements. "I will tell you, in great detail. First I submerged him in viscous liquid. Guess what sort of liquid, will you, Azlan? You are a serpent of great knowledge, perhaps you can venture a little imagination into the sort of liquid I partially drowned your death eater in, hmm?"

Azlan reared his head proudly, "Acid," he said, "You drenched him in some sort of acid, which burned through his skin, that is the worst sort of liquid I can think of."

"No," Harry said, grinning, "There is something far more painful, basilisk venom. I drenched him in basilisk venom, of which there is no antidote once it gets within a person's circulatory system save for pheonix tears, or perhaps something equally rare and obscure. I stitched his mouth and shut off all his holes with magical barriers and let his skin burn until I had enough of his pathetic screams. Then I washed him like a rag, and cast one of my favorite spells on him."

"The cruciatus," Azlan said, "That is the most painful, you tortured him to insanity with it, because the venom revealed his nerve endings without the protection of an epidermis layer and that makes the curse all the more potent."

"You are smart," Harry said, nodding, "Exactly what I did in fact, but of course I didn't have the approval of the ministry to cast unforgivables."

"You did it anyways, and the ministry didn't try to bring you to trial," Azlan said, "I can guess easily what your potential to torture is, but it is nothing compared to Lord Voldemort."

Harry clenched his jaw tightly, "I know," he said in a hard voice, "I have first hand experience, and you wonder why I hate you so much. The scroll, snake, now."

"It is hidden in this chamber, in the center where a well is located. The scroll, like my death eater, is submerged in a liquid."

"How coincidental, what liquid to be exact?" asked Harry, as he illuminated the center of the chamber. The well stood like a tower, made of red bricks. Harry walked toward it as he waited for Azlan's response.

"I don't know."

"How did it come to be here? You told me it was moved from Hogwarts to this castle. So who put it here?"

"My true master," said Azlan, "Lord Voldemort."

"I guessed as much," Harry said, venturing closer to the well, his back facing the snake. "So what liquid then? You do know, little serpent. Tell me."

"Not even Voldemort knows, but it has some interesting properties. Indeed the scroll is not a vessel for knowledge, but rather a vessel for action. Go ahead, Harry, touch the liquid, and your desires will come true. Touch it, and the scroll activates, and the spell is cast over you, over the whole world."

"I don't believe your lies," Harry said, staring into the well. Yes, there was a swirling golden liquid, bubbling and boiling, and deep within it there was a black scroll.

"Then let me touch it," There was a touch of hunger in the snake's voice, but Harry wasn't sure of it completely. He turned toward the snake, and said, "We'll touch it together then."

"You are not afraid the liquid will kill you?" Azlan asked, "How courageous."

Harry sneered and spoke in a hard voice, "If it damages me, it will damage you all the more. I am far more resilient than you, serpent, and will survive, whereas you will not. Besides, Lord Voldemort will never harm himself under any circumstances. Come, snake, touch the liquid, together on the count of three."

part (2/5)

Harry didn't exactly know why he touched it. He had some general idea but he couldn't pinpoint his willingness to dive into danger. He couldn't define his courage, because it was an ephemeral quality, it was a breeze that came with no warning, and it carried the flecks of adventure that all great men clutch on to when they can find it.

To describe the liquid would be vastly insignificant because it was not a feeling or a sensation that Harry could percieve with his senses. Rather it was a growing and expanding of his innate magic, of his magical core. And suddenly he could see inwardly what made him a wizard, what seperated him from a muggle. For a brief moment time stopped, and endless eternity descended in a heavy blanket of silence. Harry was lost in the void, with the only ray of light his inner magical core and in the endless dark space, he felt lost, alone and very small as he percieved his core.

The magic thrummed like guitar strings, vibrating around the core, around the sphere of brilliant blue light. It seemed to be like the many arms of an octapus, and its tentacles reached out toward Harry, surrounding him but respecting the distance, respecting his personal space. It felt blissful and estatic to Harry, as if he were meeting God when in reality he was just meeting a power that he had within him, a power that defied understanding and truly had no limitations. He was seeing magic at its most unrefined, at its purest and it burned his eyes, it burned his skin and it burned... everything, because the touch of the tentacle was a touch of god, a touch of the vast cosmos, from the infinite to a single point, from magic to Harry.

When the string of magic touched him, it pulled Harry toward itself, toward the core of pulsating, vibrating light, and Harry could faintly make out a sound, a far away sound and he focused on it to drown out the intensity of the light, to drown out the intensity of his emotions, but even as he did so he felt tears run down his face, and for a moment simultaneously touching his core, he was also touching the liquid. It seemed the liquid was a conduit or a catalyst to the deepest of wizardly meditations. Harry knew instantly why Voldemort had no knowledge of the liquid, because it was pure magic, pure endless possibilities. It was everything and anything, pure power in liquid form, and it had no name, and its rarity was such that it had no comparison to draw upon.

The gravity of the magical core pulled him inward. Harry felt as if he were descending into the sun, because his skin felt like it was on fire, not a hot fire but a cool bathing fire, a cleansing fire, and all his worries, all his tensions, all his frustrations and memories that haunted him, mistakes of guilt that kept him up and night were washed clean, faded away into nothingness.

Harry arose reborn like a baby. He understood the core was a womb, and it carried the seed of all possibilities, of the entire cosmos within a single point, of infinity infinitely condensed. Harry, for that instant of endless time, felt the closest he had ever been to his magic.

Then the scroll took over. The scroll opened itself, and Harry read the letterings even though previously he had no knowledge of the words and symbols, the strange drawings and the archaic diagrams depicting the human body and its magical veins and arteries. The liquid allowed him to do it, drained his magical core to read and understand the scroll.

It was written on black paper with white ink, and it was written by death itself.

Death's little spell that Harry couldn't comprehend or understand succintly, completely, excpet that it had something to do with transporting himself into another world, and it was up to him to choose what world.

Harry thought of Azlan, thought of the snake, as he stayed centered in his magical core, which pulsated like a heart. He felt his senses stretch and extend toward the serpent with barely a flicker of a soul, and using all his willpower he forced himself on the snake, forced it to obey him.

The snake fought hard, and together they were stranded in a single speck of time, stretching onward endlessly as they fought a battle of wills, a battle of survival to determine the location of the scroll.

Harry felt the battle like one would feel a headache, and he also felt it differently through his memories, emotions, ethical principles, analytical reasoning, images, sounds, sensations, euphoric feelings. It was a battle of the mind, and in the battle of the mind, a whole different world is there to explore, to conquer, to subjugate.

Harry and Azlan entered each other's minds and fought for ultimate control. He stayed in his magical core, at the apex of his utmost power, and Azlan himself, being quite skilled a wizard having Tom's soul within him, also stayed at his own magical core, which was much larger than Harry's. Harry reasoned it was because Azlan and Tom had more knowledge and experience than him in magic, in meditative occlumency, as well as in stretching and touching the magical core, which is an obscure subject Harry never bothered to learn or take interest in due to its absurd complexity. Harry wished he did because he knew if he lost this battle, he lost his soul, he lost his mind and goals. He lost his personality. If Harry let Azlan rip through his mind, tear away at his memories, mock his most heartfelt sentiments and laugh at his most weakest embarrassing moments, Harry would feel himself being slowly crushed under Azlan's will. While this attack prolonged, with Harry defending himself like he was casting a patronus charm, thinking of happy memories, Harry focused on the times he had fought the imperious curse.

This sort of mind battle was similiar. He solidified his will agaisnt Azlan, and like a hammer bashed against Azlan's magical core.

Intense pain wracked his body, and Harry screamed as if he were under the crucio curse. His larynx tore apart at the violence of his screams, at the deafening expressions of his pain.

It was pain beyond pain, and things started to break in Harry, things in the head.

Slowly, like clouds taking new shapes, he started to lose his memories, and then some of his emotions deadened and flattened. His first quidditch win became nothing more than an ordinary day at Hogwarts, and the first time he had sex became as trivial and ordinary as sitting in his cupboard at age six watching the spider build his web.

Harry felt himself changing.

As he tried to destroy Azlan, strangle him with his force of will alone, he found himself being destroyed alongside Voldemort's last horcrux.

(part 3/5)

Becoming Human, a concept that Voldemort had no trouble going against, breaking the last vestiges that held him to humanity in the conquest of power. In some ways Harry was the same, but he had grown up differently with the love of his friends, with the happiness that one finds in the smallest aspects of life, be it watching spiders make webs in a cupboard or eating chocolate frogs. But Harry was no stranger to defeat, no stranger to failure. He struggled all his life against forces far greater than him, against men with far more knowledge and experience and usually he triumphed through a mix of courage, luck, endurance and a light touch of cunning.

In this case, as he felt his mind being ripped apart as he destroyed Azlan, he could feel the scent of his victory in the air and he could sense that he had won, that he would choose the world the well of mysterious liquid and the scroll would send him to, but he would not be unchanged by it, he would not come out the same Harry Potter as he had been when he first entered the cavern of mysteries. Azlan changed him.

The moment of victory passed as a bright illuminating pain lit up through his entire body and suddenly he knew without a doubt that he had lost, that though he had destroyed Voldemort's horcrux, Azlan still had final say, and it was with this thought that he had not made his choice but rather he had fallen in for the choice of a horcrux, that he found himself sinking into something similar to a warm bath, a warm womb like apparition and he blacked out as a fiery pain stung his scar with such intensity that he felt blood running down his face, mixing in with tears of wonder at the meeting of his magical core and tears of pain.

He blacked out, even though he tried his best to stay afloat, to stay conscious of his surroundings, of his past, of his present. He tried to hold on to his memories, to his thoughts and emotions but he found himself being emptied like a cup of water all that made him Harry, all that made him to be who he was and what he stood for. When he emerged from the ritual, he had only the certain knowledge that he killed the horcrux, but that too soon dissapeared, and drop by drop he became empty of all his magical knowledge, of the memories of his friends. He became a stranger to himself when he blacked out, and at that moment he was not Harry Potter but just a man, just a wizard, an ordinary average wizard with a great history and past, with a series of brilliant accomplishments that faded away to nothingness, leaving behind only faint phantom emotions that he could not describe or discern. In that moment of timelessness where he felt the liquid run through his veins and arteries, where he felt the liquid synthesize with his body and transform him not phsyiologically or psychologically but rather magically. He felt the transformation like a distant dream, like an illusion. And then the transformation was over leaving him with a veritable thrum of endless energy, endless power, and in that single instant he would not be able to discern himself from God as pure power, pure magic flowed in his blood stream. What was once his mother's protection became something greater, something more intangible than ever before.

He blacked out and when he awoke he was in a new world altogether, an alternate dimension as he shifted his presence from the one to the other, from a world where Voldemort had been defeated totally to a world where Voldemort's victory was absolute, for that was the world Azlan had chosen as he let himself be destroyed, as he let himself succumb to Harry's will, barely giving the least resistence, because his goal was something else altogether. By luring Harry to the liquid well, and using him to change the world forever, Azlan had hoped he would have survived, but at his last mortal instant of time, he, being fatally wounded, accepted death as the path that he would have to take to ensure his complete victory over Harry Potter.

Harry awoke on soft velvety bedsheets, and he opened his bleary eyes to meet white walls of a hospital, with nurses going to and fro from bed to bed. He had a tube sticking out of his arm, pumping in nutrients and plasma. He tried to get up and a doctor with brilliant bright red hair and a coppery looking beard strode toward him.

"I see you are awake, finally. It's been eight days, mister, and you've been in a coma. You should take it a little easy, eh?" The doctor chuckled, and his laughter was loud and exuberiant. Harry blinked his eyes, and said, "Where am I?"

"Can't you tell," the doctor replied, "You're in a hospital, London's finest, although that is a matter of opinion. I'm Doctor Alford, and you are my strangest patient so far. You were found lying on the street, passed out and a police officer brought you here."

"What's happened to me? I can't remember anything," Harry said, "What's my name... It's... It's..."

It was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't access it, as if it was almost gone, as if only a seedling of what he once was remained. "I can't remember my own name," Harry said in a whisper. "Who am I?"

"I don't know," Doctor Alford said, "You didn't have any ID on you. Physically speaking you are perfectly healthy, no drugs were found in your blood stream like we had first surmised, but you were still in a coma. I hate to say it, but you are a medical mystery, and I love mysteries!" Doctor Alford gave him a brilliant grin, "I'm a Sherlock Holmes buff myself. Don't you worry, nameless one, we shall soon find what's troubling you. Although we do have to talk about finances. I don't see how you will be able to pay for medcare, and it is not cheap."

Harry nodded, "I should get going then, thank you for taking care of me here, but I should try to find my family, and then I'll pay my bill."

"Ah, not so fast now," Doctor Alford said, "You were just in a coma, you still need to be here for observation."

Harry hated this room, he hated hospitals although he couldn't recall why, and he felt as though he were different from the rest of the people in this room, superior and better, and the words came to him. "You're a muggle!" Harry blurted out.

Doctor Alford's face whitened considerably as a look of fear twinkled in his grey eyes. "A muggle..." He swallowed. "I haven't heard the word in a long time. My uncle's a wizard. I take it you are as well?" He said in a whisper.

"Yes," Harry said, nodding, "I'm a wizard. I should be with my own people. Can you discharge me and get this damn tube out of my arm?"

Doctor Alford nodded, "I'll pay your bill, you can find me and pay me back. I hope you will pay me back, but I somehow doubt it." The doctor leaned forward. "My brother cast a curse on me once, it sounded like latin, hmm.... crucio... I think. It was the most painful experience in my life."

"Nothing more than you deserve," Harry said coldly, and then flinched. "I"m sorry, I don't know where that came from. I... I should get going."

"Yes," The doctor said. "On second thought don't pay me back, don't try to find me. I hope I'll never have to see you again... please..."

Harry nodded to the doctor, "I am grateful for your assistance in my delicate health condition, and don't worry, I won't hurt you."

The doctor didn't say another word as he escorted Harry out of the hospital.

Harry looked up at the cloudy sky, at the darkening atmosphere surrounding him and he felt a coldness, a surge of fear, a surge of pain and anguish and darkness, but no memories came to mind.

Then Harry saw it. A monster, an apparrition of the most ugliest and fearsome 'thing' he had ever come across. It was a being shrouded in a dark cloak, hooded, floating in the air. And it had a jelly like face, with only one mouth.

Harry gulped and started to back away as he felt all his energy seep out of him. "D-dementor!" he exclaimed, swallowing his fear. He turned and started to run, and the dementor followed. Harry tried to pursue his memories to find what this thing was, and how he knew of it, but there was only glimpses, only fragments, bits and pieces.

Harry was an empty cup and he was like a baby vulnerable to everything around him.

Part 4/5

Harry felt the darkness of pure depression envelope him in a cacoon, and he felt a sinking feeling in his gut that told him today might be the last day he had left to live. And I just got out of a coma too, he thought wryly as he ran, feet pounding against the pavement. The street was completely devoid of any populace, and save for a few parked cars against empty stores, there was nothing the dementor would take other than Harry's soul. The dementor was hungry, Harry could feel it with every breath he took, with every heart beat he slowed further, became weaker, less of a man and more of a corpse as the dementor sucked all the happiness from his veins.

Then suddenly a wand appeared, held by a woman in a dark cloak with frilly black hair, and a necklace that had a big "M" on it. Harry wondered if she was a ministry employee sent to detain the dementor. What ministry? His next thought came. Why can't I remember? She took one contemptous look at Harry and said in a commanding voice, "Come here muggle."

Harry ran over to her, and briefly informed her that he was a wizard while he tried to catch his breath. Then he asked her if she could cast the patronus, and she shook her head. Harry tried to grab the wand from her nimble fingers but slipped and fell to the ground. "What are you trying to do, you stupid oaf? We need to apparrate out of here."

"Give me your wand," Harry commanded, "I'll do it. I can cast the patronus."

She looked hesitant but at Harry's imploring and commanding gaze she relented and handed him her oak wand as the dementor approached at a smooth glide. Harry looked at the vile creature's mouth and acting from unconscious instinct he raised his wand. Think of a happy thought, he said to himself, but nothing came to mind. "Expecto Patronum!" A tiny wisp of white pale light filtered out of his wand, which didn't even make the dementor creation pause for a moment as it reached upward with its bony claws to remove its hood. A jelly like head appeared, with a vast shark teeth mouth meant for sucking out souls.

"Come on, we have to apparrate!" insisted the woman, "Give me my wand back."

As the dementor leaned down toward Harry, he found he could not move. Instead, in a few moments, memories from his amnesiac brain surfaced to consciousness. And he remembered.

"My name..." he breathed out in a whisper. "Is Harry Potter. I'm the- I am the-" He shut his eyes. "I'm the boy who lived."

The woman wasn't paying attention to Harry's mumblings. She grabbed her wand back, and held on to Harry's arm, and apparrated to an unknown destination. Harry felt a squeezing of his whole body as he side along apparrated out of the street with the dementor just as the dementor was about to give Harry a "kiss."

And the recollection of lost memories was over. All he got out of the experience was a name and a meaningless title that he didn't understand.

But still, Harry Potter, the boy who lived. It sounded right. It sounded like him.

Part 5/5

Harry gasped as he felt the squeezing sensation suck the breath out of his lungs, and he shut his eyes, clenching it tightly and forced himself to ignore the churning sensation in his stomach. He tried not to puke but he couldn't help it. The atrophy his hospital stay had given him no strength whatsoever, and he felt weak, light headed, as he vomited on the ground. He could hear bustlings of people nearby, some holding black bags, and most of them wearing black robes from what he could tell of the rim of cloth covering boots of random strangers. Harry felt a sensation of vertigo and again let out some more of the contents of his stomach. The woman waved her wand and the puke mysteriously dissapeared.

Harry attributed it to magic. He had never seen something so strange, so familiar, so wonderful and mysterious, and yet he had. He had a close connection to it, but with his lack of memory he felt so far away from something - magic, wondrous miraculous magic - that he should have been attuned to like the air he breathed.

"Come on, let's get you some food. What was your name?" asked the woman, "I've never seen a wizard have such a bad reaction to an apparrition, but I suppose the dementor could be blamed for that. They're running loose all over the muggle world, nowadays and its my job to contain them," she said as she helped him to his feet. "I'm Melinda Longbones, but you can call me Mel, that's what my friends call me."

Harry looked around and gasped at the sheer gigantic shock of it all, as rows and rows of shops with titles such as Potente Potions, Magical Wands, Rocks and Amulets appeared before him. He turned to the woman and said in a hoarse voice, "Where am I?"

She smiled a little, "Never been to Diagon Alley before? How in the world are you a wizard then, hmm? And you still haven't introduced yourself, or your profession. You aren't one of them vagabounds, are you, because the Lord made it illegal now."

"My name is Harry Potter," he said, "And I"ve lost my memory. I just woke up in a muggle hospital of all places."

"Haven't heard the name before," said the woman. Harry studied her face. She had an angular, almost bony structure that reminded him of someone named after a flower, and her eyes contained a whole array of emotions revealed to Harry so easily that he could almost read her thoughts. And then he realized, he really could, if he focused deeply into her eyes enough. As she talked about Diagon Alley, pointing out various shops while they headed off to a small cafe she knew of, Harry could guess what she would say next, and he could see in the whirling image streams of her mind her memories, where she grew up (In a village with a name that Harry found familiar, Godric's Hollow), her years at Hogwarts, her time as an assistant secretary in the ministry and her recent promotion. He made a bit of small talk with her, but mostly kept silent and let her talk her heart out. It seemed she too was affected by the dementors and a recurring memory in her mind was when she got cursed by a particular nasty death eater because she was half blooded.

"Come on, let's sit down, would you like to order, or should I?" asked Mel, and Harry let her decide what they wanted, and made a few suggestions of his own. She nodded, and waved her wand in the air, spoke the order in a clear and loud voice, and suddenly silverware appeared before them. Harry didn't try to contain his surprise.

"You act like you've never seen magic before," she said, chuckling. "Well I suppose there's some potions you can get to see your memories again but they're pretty expensive, and I've heard they don't always work. It can be quite risky, buying potions these days, unless of course they have the Dark Lord's insignia on them, then its a sure deal, but anything with his mark is priced through the roof."

"The Dark Lord?" Harry asked, "Can you tell me more?"

Her eyes widened, "Ah, I see. Um..." She seemed hesitant to give him an answer but Harry easily saw through her mind, at the visage of the most powerful man in Britian, who regularly appeared in newspapers and on the stage in the middle of Diagon Alley. He attracted vast crowds that filled the streets with people eagerly waiting to see his face, to hear the sibilant hissing tone in his voice, to feel his red eyes upon their hearts like he was looking straight at you. Harry glanced through her memories and pushed his way in, eager to see the dark lord's face. Mel gave a brief moan of pain, and shut her eyes.

"Ugh, I think I have a headache. Look, Harry, I want to tell you about him but-"

Harry said nothing, but his link was broken when she shut her eyes. And when he reinitiated it, she gave another moan, and a shudder. Harry pushed with all his will to see the image of the dark lord, to find out his name but it was burried under layers of heavy emotions, under blankets of fear. And then, as if the rays of the sun burst from a foam of dark clouds, Harry saw it, a revelation.

He was a normal looking man, very skinny, with pale skin and shallow cheeks. But what captivated Harry was the man's eyes. They looked so familiar, so close, that Harry felt he almost knew the man, as if the dark lord was a father to him or something.

Red pupils gleamed out from Mel's memory and even as Harry tried to focus in on them, he found himself slipping into a hypnotic trance. He shook himself out of it, and sweat beads lined his forehead, dripped down his face. When he felt awareness of his surroundings return to him he was surprised to see Mel lying on the floor, clutching her head and screaming. One of the male customers, a burly looking half giant bounded toward her and said, "Make room, make room!"

Harry leaned over her and nimbly grabbed her oak wand. Then without a look back he turned and strode out the cafe's doors to the magical street outside, to the world ruled by a man that Harry felt a spellbinding connection to from the painful twinges of his scar to the boiling hatred that rose within him, without a cause or reason to substantiate the deep loathing and a certain contempt. Even as it rose it dissapeared, like the dewdrops of an early morning, evaporating into nothingness, and as Harry strode down the street, twirling the wand between his fingers, his thoughts returned to the dementor and how he couldn't even cast a simple patronus because he had no happy memory.

That's not it, he realized suddenly, stopping in front of the Potente Potions store. I'm weak. He felt a shudder of fear run up his spine at this realization, and he found himself quickly rushing into the store, breathing erratically, like he couldn't get enough air in his lungs. He felt a bit hot, and a bit cold at the same time when he entered the store. A tickling feeling ran down his face and body, accompanied with the ringing of a bell, and he looked up at a sign that read "Shoplifting Wards Protect This Store."

Harry looked around at the shelves filled with exotic potions, labeled in thin, neat handwriting. The handwriting looked a bit familiar and Harry was suddenly visited with an image of a piece of parchment, and the words "TROLL" scribbled hastily in red ink. The word was written in the same hand as most of the labels on the potion flasks. Harry bent over one and he could see a mark - the dark lord's mark - on the white label. It had a snake running into the mouth of a skull. Harry shuddered at the grossness he felt at the picture. It striked him as alien, something unnatural, to be hated and fought, not respected like the society he had found himself in.

"Can I help you," said a slippery voice from the counter. Harry looked up and green eyes met oily black.

"Potter?" gasped the man, getting up from his stool. He put down the parchment scroll he was reading and drew his wand in a quick and fluid movement.

"What the hell are you doing here, Potter? Might I remind you of the bounty placed on your head?"

"The bounty?" Harry asked in confusion. "Nobody here knows me, nobody recognizes me."

The man rolled his eyes, "So foolhardy and stupid," he said, sneering, "Of course they don't recognize you, James Potter." He hissed the name out like it was a curse. "The bounty is only for the highest echelons of society, the death eaters." Snape smiled like a fox as he proudly lifted his left sleeve to show the dark mark tatooed on his skin.

"And you're a death eater, hmm?" Harry asked calmly as he stared down the tip of the wand. He didn't know why he felt calm, focused, concentrated, but with his fingers resting lightly on his wand, he knew he would not fall today.

He somehow knew it in a way that was entrenched in the very marrow of his bones. Duelling, fighting with magic was something he could do, with or without his memories. He didn't need memory to use skills ingrained in his very being.

He did not need memory to defend himself. He was the very defence agianst the dark, the sword of the light, the boy who lived. The title came to him now, the wording, akin to air bubbles floating upward in still water, rushed in his brain. He was the weapon against the darkness, the bane of the dark lord.

He was the Boy Who Lived. And although he could not remember what it meant exactly, he had a feeling - like the feel of a fluttery breeze lightly tickling his face - of home, of identity. He inhaled, exhaled, and tried to peer into the man's mind. But he found himself blocked, pushed backward. As he kept trying, the man kept talking.

"As if you don't know that already," the man said, "I haven't seen your putrid looking face for many years, thank heaven for that. But your eyes, are you wearing muggle contacts?" asked the man, his lips curled in disgust.

"No," Harry said, "Why don't you put down the wand and tell me your name once again. I can't seem to remember."

The man turned red with rage, "Severus Snape," he grounded out, "You will remember the name of the man who sent you to Azkaban soon enough, Potter."

With that he twisted his wrist and sent an orange curse at Harry's face. Harry raised his wand slightly, conjuring a silver shield, and then as if he were a cloud watching the ground from far away, he moved, not consciously controlling his motion and his spells but rather letting them flow naturally out of his being, letting the dam that contained his magic and his prowess at using it, wrought from blood and sweat, burst with a hideous array of dark magic.

Snape looked surprised briefly as he strained himself to block the nonstop chain of curses Harry sent his way and in a brief almost silent pause save for the ringing of a bell, Harry stopped to catch his breath, and sent out a silent bone breaking hex. With a smirk on his face, he banished the entire counter at Harry.

Faced with a rushing rectangular block of wood big enough to crush him, Harry did the only thing that came to mind.

A troll and a club.

"Wingardium-"

And then everything went black as he felt a stunner hit his back.


End file.
